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Blind

I was born with blue eyes outside, black inside.
Dead orbs do not accept the colors of the earth.
Picturesque landscapes can only be described.
Still, mist covered, morning ponds: just words.
Brilliant clothing at the Jamaican Festival: wasted on me.
Children, running and playing at the park: one dimensional.
The beauty of my wife’s face: experienced on my fingertips.
Gourmet meals: aroma and taste determine culinary opinion.

Although I am without sight, I am pleasantly gifted.
Eyes that see produce preconceived, prejudicial judgments.
I am able to meet a person from inside out, not outside in.
Sharing in conversations without eyes sets me free.
Words and emotions become my criteria for acceptance.
Shackles of skin color or appearance do not bind me.
Texture and deliverance of voices my sounding board.
Tender touches and hand shakes the measure of sincerity.

So, my lot in life is to see more clearly than most.
Physical darkness is the only limitation I must live with.
Spiritual illumination has become my Seeing Eye dog-
Guidance tempered by cured patience over time.
I need not fear the dark because that is where I live.
And, when asked,” Don’t you wonder what things look like?”
My reply is usually unsettling to say the least.
“Yes, do you think I asked to be blind?”



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Chris Stienstra tells us, “Tested over time for 58 years. Enjoy writing and painting. This poem is fictional (meaning that I am not blind). It struck me that those who can not see may have better insight than we have outer sight. I write what I consider 'Peoples' Poetry.' ”

Chris Stienstra's next poem is Shake My Hand where he confronts a sometimes unwelcome guest.